Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(17)

Now it’s her turn to shrug as if it didn’t matter. But I’m getting the feeling that it did. “I don’t know who talked. But we weren’t that careful. You rented an apartment with other players, right? They picked up the landline sometimes when I’d call.”

Oh hell. It had never occurred to me that Bess might get in trouble at work. “What did Pines tell you? Did she say you had to drop me like a hot potato?”

“She told me that if I slept with the athletes, my reputation would be ruined. That nobody would take me seriously. It’s not the same for women in this business. Her exact words were—‘What do you call a woman who takes money from the man she’s banging? You call her a whore.’”

“Jesus Christ,” I hiss. “That’s harsh. It’s not like you were my agent.”

“Oh, please. My boss was your agent. I knew Pines was right.”

It’s dark in the room, and I can almost feel her blushing from embarrassment. And it pisses me off on her behalf.

“She wasn’t right,” I scoff. “It wasn’t her place to lecture you like that.”

“Wasn’t it?” she argues. “I didn’t enjoy hearing it, but she did me a favor. I didn’t want that reputation, Tank. I needed to be taken seriously. And that’s why I told you that I was too busy to see you anymore. If that seemed like a brushoff, I apologize.”

“You could have explained. I would have understood.” Even as I say the words, I wonder if they’re true. I was an arrogant little fuck at twenty-three.

“I was so embarrassed,” she whispers. “And so young. And more na?ve than you can imagine. It was my first real job, and I needed to do well. I just…”

“All right. Don’t sweat it now. Not after that spectacular encore performance.” I lean over and kiss her quickly.

She laughs, and her tummy quakes against my hip.

“Should I find our wine glasses?”

“I need a shower so badly right now.”

“That’s a fine idea,” I say, swinging my legs off the bed. “Step right this way.”





Seven





Employee of the Month





Bess





I’d been expecting to shower alone, since that’s how I usually do it. I need a minute to process what’s happened and to put my game face back on.

But Tank follows me into the walk-in shower, whistling and gloriously naked. He turns a dial, and water begins to rain down from a luxury showerhead the size of a large pizza. Then Tank pulls me under the warm spray with him and kisses me again.

My game face is probably destroyed forever. Who could spend an evening under this man’s hard body, drinking down his kisses, and then manage to look rational afterward? Not me, that’s for sure.

I’ve been very reckless tonight. I’ve violated my cardinal rule—no sleeping with players. And the man is still married—at least on paper. Nobody can ever know about this.

His hands are tender as he slides the soap up my back and kisses my neck. I know I’m just his rebound girl. Tonight is a fluke—a fantastical moment brought to us by luck and memories. We’re both feeling a little wistful and lost, right?

He pushes me up against the tile wall and sighs into my mouth. “You’re just what I needed tonight,” he whispers, as if reading my thoughts. “Happy Birthday.”

My heart swells. I kiss him back, because it would be a crime not to enjoy this while it lasts. This will be my last, brief trip into the strange world that Tank and I used to occasionally inhabit. Where bodies are made for pleasure, and no rules apply.





Two hours later I wake up with a start, my damp hair snarled against the pillow. Tank snores softly beside me. Outside, the sky is as dark as Brooklyn ever gets. The clock on the bedside table reads 1:18. Although hotel clocks are often wrong.

Panicked, I slide off the bed. Tank doesn’t stir from the place where he collapsed after doing me again in the shower. He’s thirty-two years old and has the sexual stamina of a college boy. How is that even fair?

I find my crumpled panties on the floor and pull them on. Then I shake out my dress and step into it, reaching around to zip it up as best I can. My body feels well used, in the best possible way, but I probably look like a disaster. Even worse—my brother is probably letting himself into my apartment right this second, wondering where I am.

I pick up my sandals and tiptoe into the living room, where I recover my clutch purse. My phone confirms that it’s twenty past one in the morning.

I’d received a text from Eric Bayer at 12:01. Happy Birthday! Am I the first to say it? What do I win?

He’s not the first, but I’m never admitting it. Thank you. You’re the employee of the month. Your wall plaque is forthcoming. Are you still at the bar?

The moment after I hit Send, I slip into my sandals and head out the door, closing it behind me as softly as possible. Goodnight, Tank. I feel a bit ridiculous doing the walk of shame in the wee hours of my thirtieth birthday. But here we are.

Eric replies while I’m in the elevator. Still here at the tavern! Winning at darts, because Heidi already went home.

Congrats, I reply. Is there any chance my brother is still with you?